The Telling

by Mike Duran

  Tamra settled back in her chair with her fingers steepled at her lips. Shady had returned and lay panting, probably exhausted from her jaunt with the other dogs out front. However, Tamra was hesitant to read on, feeling as if she was being drawn into something she did not want to know. Even more unnerving was the possibility that the Madness was rooted in historical fact. “Facts are stubborn things,” Nams loved to say. Tamra sighed, leaned forward, and scrolled down the article:

  Many factors commonly led to the abandonment of towns in the American West: depletion of natural resources, natural disasters such as floods or droughts, railroads and roads bypassing an existing town, disease, and sickness. However, the Madness of Endurance adds another entry to the catalog of possibilities: mass suicide.

  Silverton began as a mining camp of little note following the discovery of silver in 1869 by a group of prospectors, namely R. L. Otta. The wealthy landowner purchased several properties along the southeastern Sierra Nevada range. (Otta died in a freak industrial accident in 1876.) Otta’s Rift, as it was named, became the hub of operations, producing consistent silver loads and attracting hopeful prospectors. Silverton reached its peak in 1873 when, apparently, the mining operation ceased and the city was left abandoned. The reason for the inhabitants’ actions remain a matter of speculation.

  City records noted the discovery of unspecified artifacts in Otta’s Rift, apparently those of a tribal nature. Unearthing burial grounds or cave dwellings was not uncommon for early prospectors. Nevertheless, the discovery at Otta’s Rift was of such a nature as to immediately cease operations. While the exact causes behind the standstill are unknown, records indicate great fear and superstition divided the miners, leading to several notable disputes among Silverton leaders. Scandalous charges of impostors, delusions, and soothsaying were made. The last recorded entry in the city records was in the spring of 1873, but no indication of Silverton’s abandonment is mentioned.

  Enter Joseph Blessington, a nomadic prospector of British descent who stumbled upon what he called a “field of skins.” In a journal entry dated October 1873, Blessington wrote cryptically of the scene he had reportedly encountered:

  Lord’s Day, October 1873

  On the southward leg of my journey, in departure through Miners’ Meadow along the mule trail, I came upon the remains of the place therein known as Otta’s Ryft. Equipment of such sort as possessed of mining operations were plenteous, though no living things manned such apparatus. This mystery drew me to investigate [illegible] an event of mass Extinction. It smote the eye, a sinister place, vile and decrepit in fascination. Regalia of unknown import bedecked the environs: altars, charms, and smoking fire-pits of unwholesome matter. On approach, fits and agonies of Mind assailed the author. Frightening displays of Workmanship most curious to the eye, as to be found in Cathedrals of religious origin, embellished the site. There rose before the ungodly gash a Bloodless mound of Limbs and gristle, corrupt and inhuman anatomies, such as to be henceforward believed the very Pylon of Hell. The landscape was charred as from great blasts, the mine entry piled of this field of skins. Said Figures [illegible] unencumbered by skeleton and rigidity, possessed of Beastly origin. I dared not approach closely to the remains, lest Plague or Terror smite me, and fled such wicked plot of ground, never to return.

  After reporting his find to the nearest town, Joseph Blessington was never heard from again. The acquisition of his journal by C. J. Hooper remains a mystery. Upon his report, a search party was organized, which confirmed Blessington’s findings. The remains had been scattered, most likely by animals, and were not considered human. When Silverton’s abandonment was learned, great fear fell upon homesteaders and travelers. Rumor spread of the strange corpses, their incineration, and the disappearance of the entire city, and Otta’s Rift fell into legend.

  Though the ghost town has been administered by California State Parks since becoming a state historic park in 1962, it receives less than 300 visitors yearly, most likely due to the ignominious legacy it has left. Some have speculated an ergot epidemic decimated the city or drove its inhabitants insane, while others deem more conspiratorial forces. Otta’s Rift was sealed, and the event eventually became known as the Madness of Endurance.

  Tamra settled back into her chair. The words of her grandmother flitted about her mind. It’s the Madness of Endurance. It’s here again. How much did Nams know about this? This morning, Bev Beason had crept up beside Tamra. A chill swept over her as she recalled the woman’s empty eyes. What could be happening?

  Tamra shut the laptop and started to get ready for work. But she could not busy herself enough to remove the deep disquiet seeping into her marrow.

  Chapter 13

  At one time he’d fancied himself Robinson Crusoe. It was right after Zeph discovered a hardbound copy of the Defoe classic in Book Swap. The iconic literary figure brought him strange comfort, proof, as it were, that men could indeed be islands. If that Crusoe could survive on a remote tropical island with coconuts, goat milk, and solitude, then why couldn’t Zeph survive on a ranch without a cell phone, laptop, or human interaction?

  Daylight was fading. Autumn’s approach was in the air, a dewy decay that lingered around the edges and tainted the daily chores with sadness. Fall had never been kind to him. The wind, the cooling nights, the dead leaves. If winter embodied death, then fall was its harbinger.

  Zeph dabbed at a magenta sunset with his paintbrush, leaned back from the canvas, and gazed out from the back porch across the three-acre parcel. Carson Creek meandered just beyond his fence line, making its way along the foothills toward the aqueduct. Cutthroat and brook trout thrived in the icy waters. He fly-fished the area often, a regular castaway in his own little paradise.

  Zeph followed the foothills with his eyes, the porch lights winking in the folds and clefts of the Sierras, up to the fierce and stormy peaks now wreathed in blistering sunset red. Yet despite the pristine setting, the image of the withered man at the morgue would not relent.

  … your darker self.

  Zeph shivered at the thought. It was a strange coincidence, that’s all. Anybody could get a tattoo of the Star of David on their arm. But the scar, and those shriveled legs … it was just too weird. Maybe the detectives were right and High Banton was seeking retribution for getting beaten up, playing some cruel joke on Zipperface. Whatever it was, the police would uncover something. At least he tried to convince himself of that.

  Jamie yapped next door, summoning Zeph from his thoughts.

  The dog wasn’t nearly as annoying as others on the street, particularly the Bagwells’ hound who bellowed at the slightest noise. Zeph recalled what Mila had said about the Chihuahua’s recent agitation.

  He placed the brush in a nearby coffee can of water, rose, and wandered down the steps of the wooden porch, listening to the dog and following his instincts. His mother would have called this “walking by faith,” although Zeph’s faith presently seemed about as agile as a desert tortoise. He walked around the side of the house as a few stray hens bustled to their coop for the evening, and then into the front yard, where he stopped. The lamp across the street flickered to life. The smell of lemons and brown sugar drifted by, followed by the clamor of tins. Mila was busy at work, which brought a smile. Farther down the street the Vermont’s marquee glazed the sidewalk in neon warmth and reminded him of the dangers of “hidden fruit.” Jamie had now stopped barking, and an unusual stillness seemed to simmer in the dusky air.

  That’s when he noticed the door to Book Swap was slightly ajar.

  Zeph stared.

  The book exchange was self-service. People came and went as they pleased. The cottage set to the side of his property had an idyllic charm about it, he thought, and Zeph took care to cultivate the surrounding garden. Call him a preservationist. Yet in the age of digital readers, book exchanges had become a dying breed. Nevertheless, Zeph was quite happy to perpetuate Blythe McCrery’s vision … even if it meant keeping his gate open to potential st
rangers.

  Still, the open door struck him as weird.

  Mint Wheaton was overdue for her sci-fi fix. Perhaps she had come when he was out back and simply forgotten to close the door. Nothing weird about that. And Timothy regularly drove down from Hunter’s Lodge in search of maritime historicals. However, Zeph could not recall having heard the jangling of the bell on the door, which usually signaled guests.

  The tree limbs grated overhead as a gust swept by, setting the porch swing rocking.

  … your darker self.

  He shivered at the memory of the humanoid husk at the morgue.

  A twenty-six-year-old bachelor living alone on a three-acre parcel with enough money in various CDs and bank accounts to afford a suite in a gated community and a personalized bodyguard should not be in this predicament. That thought crossed Zeph Walker’s mind more than once. At the least he should have a remote-controlled wrought-iron gate and two husky Rottweilers patrolling the property.

  Instead he had chickens.

  Mila’s screen door rattled in the breeze. However, something other than her pear turnovers and oatmeal raisin cookies occupied his attention.

  As far as Zeph knew, the thirty-by-twenty-foot adobe structure next to his carport had always been called Book Swap. He didn’t particularly care for the name and on several occasions had thought about changing it. More often than not, shutting the place down seemed reasonable. Perhaps it was his gift—his love for words—that caused him to keep it operational. That and he just liked to read. Nevertheless, anonymity was a precious commodity to Zeph Walker. And Book Swap did nothing to further that goal.

  Which left him utterly conflicted.

  A small footpath divided his front yard, branching off through the picket fence that surrounded the cottage. Zeph followed it. A row of sunflowers tilted there, their dried seeds pecked clean by jays. He stepped to the front door and stood on the welcome mat. A breeze swept past again, rustling the dry sunflower husks. The wooden sign hanging from the fascia swayed with each gust. The door breathed open and closed.

  This wasn’t like Los Angeles, where dead bolts and security systems were a necessity. Nevertheless, the image of the reptile man at the morgue had poisoned his thoughts.

  Zeph pushed the door open far enough to activate the motion detector. The light came on inside, and the bells jangled, but he remained on the porch.

  “Hello?” He felt like a fool. “Anybody in here?”

  He drew a deep breath and stepped into Book Swap. The smiling watercolor of Blythe McCrery greeted him. Zeph had painted it based off a Polaroid headshot of her he’d found in one of the books. The elderly widow had owned the three-acre parcel. Apparently the enterprise had started as a hobby and blossomed into a quaint watering hole for neighbors and local book enthusiasts. Blythe became known as an antiquarian sage of sorts, gathering books into her little silo as the dark digital age encroached. Friends and residents soon began dropping off all sorts of reads, from collectibles to disposables, which Blythe willingly accepted, building a dense but formidable library. Originally built as a guest house, she eventually converted the old cottage into a library where locals could come and exchange books at no cost. In fact, when the Endurance library went through its first renovation, they donated some of their old wooden bookshelves to Blythe. The monstrous shelves had to be dismantled and reassembled inside. They managed to squeeze seven into the cottage, all of which reached the ceiling. The event made the local paper.

  When Blythe passed away, the city entertained prospects of making the home a historical site. But as much as she had contributed to the advancement of literary appreciation in Endurance, the city could not justify bestowing such an honor upon the widow. Or the inconspicuous piece of property. Blythe’s son, a dreary, unemployed sign painter, had little intention of preserving the place or his mother’s legacy. The house was sold as-is. So for the last eight years Zeph had nurtured Blythe McCrery’s vision.

  Outside in the yard another gust of wind rustled through the ash, and the weathered sign tapped against the house. The door rocked on its hinges.

  … your darker self.

  Perhaps it was the image of the doppelgänger that set him on edge. Yet something was not right about this place. Whatever it was, whether justified or not, Zeph could not deny that a new kind of fear had awakened inside him, as if the Telling had punctured a reservoir of untapped emotion. Suddenly he felt vulnerable, like he was prey to an unseen enemy.

  Maybe destiny was stalking him.

  The door yawned, and dirt spiraled into the room. He winced at the swirling grit. And then froze as a shadowy figure stepped into the doorway.

  Chapter 14

  She thought her hands were one of her best qualities. Sure, they’d never make the cover of Bridal magazine. And the tiny scar under the second knuckle of her right-hand ring finger was a painful reminder of how jewelry and carpentry don’t go well together. However, Tamra Lane was not about to give up carpentry.

  She glanced at the man who stood opposite the checkout counter. They called him Clegg. She didn’t know if that was his first or last name. He blew in from the rim every couple of months sporting a grizzled beard and a disposition as agreeable as spoiled milk. Without so much as a nod of acknowledgment, he set to removing his items from a handbasket and laying them on the counter.

  Tamra took the first item, watching that pale scar on her finger pass over the scanner. Her grandmother always said that a good woman worked with her hands. Annie even had a Bible verse to back it up. Of course, Nams could find a Bible verse for just about anything. Working in a hardware store may not be the best way for a woman to use her hands, Tamra surmised, yet with the economy the way it was and a city the size of Endurance, she felt blessed to have a steady job at all. Besides, where else could she use her knowledge of lithium-ion tools and hexagonal screws?

  Clegg squinted through limp, shaggy hair as she scanned his items. A dead bolt, three industrial-size padlocks, a small spool of 17-gauge electric fence wire, and rat poison.

  She looked up at him.

  “And two boxes of shotgun shells.” His gaze flitted nervously about the store.

  “Twelve-gauge?” This was not a question she would ask her typical customer. Many of the locals hunted fowl, 12-gauge being the standard. Clegg, however, sometimes specified slugs—thick lead weights. Tamra was unsure why someone would prefer slugs, unless they were hunting rhinos. And she wasn’t ready to ask him to explain. Today he simply grunted.

  “You holin’ up for the Apocalypse?” Tamra retrieved two boxes of 12-gauge and set them on the counter.

  “Worse.” Clegg stopped fidgeting and peered at her. “Lots worse.”

  Tamra glanced over her shoulder at Matthew, who looked up from rearranging sale items long enough to roll his eyes.

  Clegg lived in the foothills of the southern basin near Breen’s llama ranch. He’d been a stable hand there until he accidentally burned down a barn while attempting to build his own Taser device. Shadowmen prowled the wasteland, he swore, and he was only trying to stop them. The incident got him fired and made Clegg the butt of jokes around town. “You goin’ Clegg on us?” people would taunt. Now the man lived alone on his ramshackle ranch and had apparently surrendered to his eccentricities.

  “You ain’t noticed it, I take it.” Clegg ran his tongue over yellowed teeth.

  “Um …” She bagged the items. “Ain’t noticed what?”

  Clegg passed her a fifty-dollar bill and snatched the bag.

  “Just ask that boss of yours.” He jabbed his thumb toward the service counter. “Or what’s left of him.”

  She handed Clegg his change, and he shambled out the front door of Farner’s Hardware without the slightest salutation. The door shut, and the bell jangled behind him.

  “And you have a nice day,” Tamra said dryly.

  “Don’t take it personal, Tam.” Matthew rose, brushing his hands off on his work apron. “Everyone isn’t as nice as me.”
r />   “Or as conceited.”

  “Aw. You know you like it.”

  She removed her apron and stuffed it under the counter. “I’m taking lunch. Can you cover?”

  “Absolutely. But only if you promise to meet me at the Brandin’ Iron after hours.”

  “Um, ’fraid not.”

  “Then how ’bout Dean’s?” he called after her. “We can share a buffalo burger.”

  This time she ignored him. Matthew’s advances were innocent enough. However, she occasionally entertained playing the sexual-harassment card just to cool his jets. But Tamra Lane wasn’t one to admit surrender easily.

  She went to the service counter, where she logged on to the computer and googled a city map. Mr. Farner sat at his desk, leafing through paperwork. The owner was a perpetual number cruncher. And with sales in a slump, Tamra could only imagine the anxiety going on under that hairless scalp. She returned her gaze to the computer, zeroing in on the Vermont. Several small businesses still existed in that area of town—a pawn shop and a laundromat, but no bookstore. Maybe her grandmother was mistaken. Whatever the case, Tamra had a half-hour to find Zephaniah Walker and commission him to secure a copy of Mystery Spots and Magic Landscapes.

  She retrieved her helmet and backpack from the break room, put her flannel on, buttoned it up, and prepared to exit out the back door.

  Mr. Farner was watching her.

  Jonas Farner was a family man, a community icon. A gentleman, by all accounts. He’d never done anything remotely inappropriate to Tamra. Nevertheless, as their eyes met, something did not register. It was not daydreaming she saw in his eyes; there was nothing blank about his stare. In fact, there was something opposite, something anxious, almost ravenous about the gaze. She squirmed, but he did not look away. Just as she prepared to say something, to ask him if everything was all right, Mr. Farner set down his papers and said, “Tamra, are you okay?”